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A idan MacWilliam was not a man to leave things to chance, but some things were beyond even his control—specifically, Ms. Emmaline Perkins.

She wasn’t at all what he was expecting, which was laughable now that he’d met her.

He’d been prepared to go into battle—her reputation, his cousin Colin informed him, was for a well-earned steely countenance.

She was a talent that her current company hadn’t yet fully exploited, and Colin hoped to steal her away before they did so.

Aidan had to admit, he hoped he could pay attention to the job at hand.

Colin had tasked him with determining if Ms. Perkins was as effective in person as his latest client swore she was.

Celtic Connections needed only the best for the head of its PR department, but Colin didn’t want to post the position publicly for reasons unknown to Aidan.

As they were family, Aidan didn’t question him. He simply agreed to meet with the woman, conduct the interview in an unassuming way, and report back to Colin with his impressions.

First impression? Smart. Ms. Perkins was a quick thinker, and witty, too.

She was also, he admitted without hesitation, quite beautiful.

Her hair was a dark honey blonde, and her eyes were not easily forgotten.

The stunning shade of blue, almost violet, was unlike any color he’d ever had the fortune of seeing.

Her professional demeanor was well practiced; if he hadn’t been watching for it, he wouldn’t have noticed her subtle, admiring glances.

He chuckled to himself. There wasn’t much he didn’t notice about Ms. Perkins.

There weren’t any pictures of her online or in print—none on the web, her company’s website, or even social media.

Aidan had his own contacts do some preliminary research on her, but she kept the lowest profile he’d ever seen—aside, of course, from his own.

He wondered if that was what made her so good at her job—her clients’ “misdeeds,” as she called them, were fixed almost immediately.

Most people didn’t even know a transgression happened at all, or it was turned on its head into something positive.

He finished buttoning his shirt and pulled on his most comfortable pair of jeans.

His suit was gone; he showed Emma his friendly business side (and, unfortunately, a little of his not-so-friendly business side thanks to the large-breasted bit of evil in her office), and now he needed to get more personal.

Trustworthy; less like a business arrangement, more like a friendship.

Aidan looked around for the hotel key card and cursed.

Back home, his security system consisted of a very sharp sword, not that he had to make use of it very often.

In fact, he mused, spying the key card on the granite counter in his suite’s large kitchen, the last time he’d had the pleasure of using it was when Colin had visited him in Ireland and they’d engaged in a bit of sport in the back garden.

His fingers flexed. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed the sound of steel upon steel. He couldn’t wait to have his old sword back; none other had quite the balance to it like that one did .

He flipped off the light and grabbed his black leather jacket from the back of the dining room chair.

His suite at the W Hotel was enormous—certainly bigger than his modest cottage in Ireland.

The suite boasted two floors of living space.

The dining room held a large, polished table with six chairs.

The kitchen was modern and sleek, and all black and chrome.

A living room and powder room completed the first floor, and the upstairs held two bedrooms, each with its own full-sized washroom.

Opulence. Even after all these years, he still hated it.

Colin insisted on making the hotel reservations.

Pompous arse, he knew how much Aidan loathed lavishness, which was no doubt why he’d booked the swankiest room possible.

Their relationship was more like brothers than cousins, and Aidan took great pleasure in the thought that he would get his revenge somehow.

Aidan put his thoughts aside and grabbed his satchel, which was stuffed with treasures sure to make Emma’s unique eyes light up like a Christmas tree. He could only imagine what her response would be. That feistiness and her quick wit would be a boon in the upcoming days.

If she agreed to it.

He frowned. Wayward thoughts weren’t going to be of aid.

He needed to remain focused on his end goal—determine Emma’s abilities, get the sword from the auction, and get back to Ireland before Colin could set him up on a date with some new client.

Colin had held off so far, but Aidan could sense his cousin’s growing impatience with his own determination to get back home.

Despite that, Aidan hadn’t any desire to be Celtic Connections’ latest match.

He liked his solitude, he liked his peace, and he loved how it grated on Colin’s nerves.

Aidan closed the door behind him and hit the elevator button, sliding his arms into his jacket. He needed to keep his wits about himself, and refocus on the task .

His mobile rang, interrupting his thoughts. “Are you downstairs?”

“You bet yer arse I am, and I got another one of those parking tickets,” Cian MacWilliam barked from the other end. “Shite, mate, you’d best have a plate ready fer me at Paddy’s. The bobbies aren’t big Irish fans and they didn’t like me threatening them.”

The elevator dinged, and Aidan grinned at the man standing in the lobby, who doubled as his driver tonight. “They don’t look kindly upon brutes threatening them with swords. I’m surprised you didn’t get yourself thrown in a cell for the night.”

Cian tightened his jaw as he shoved his phone into his pocket. “I would’ve liked to see them try.”

Aidan clapped a hand on his back. “Try to bring the temper down. I’ve got myself an important meeting, and I would appreciate it if you could turn on the charm. I know you have it in there somewhere.”

“She best be a looker,” Cian grumbled.

Surprised by the small jolt of possessiveness he felt, Aidan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Doesn’t matter much, mate.” They walked toward the nondescript gray sedan with a neon orange ticket on the windshield. “This is business, not pleasure.”

Cian spat out an obscenity as he slid the ticket from under the wiper. “I’m in sore need of some pleasure.”

Aidan rolled his eyes as he pulled open the door. “You can have your fun when we get home. Let’s get going already.”

Cian started the car. “I’ve been waiting eight long years to get home. Another twenty seconds isn’t going to change anything.”

Aidan pulled out some papers from his satchel. “It will if you don’t pay attention to the road. Drive on, Cian.”

Cian’s sigh was deep, but he acquiesced. “Aye, my laird.”

At seven o’clock precisely, Aidan stepped into another world.

He was damn proud of this restaurant; he designed it himself and handpicked the chef from his home country.

He hated all the fuss that went with opening a restaurant, so his chef, Paddy, took all the recognition.

It was part of their agreement—Aidan remained a silent partner, fronting the money and vision while Paddy created the delicious fare and became the face of the establishment.

Aidan preferred it that way. His privacy was worth much more than what the restaurant brought in.

Gregory, the efficient (if stodgy) host, led him through the public dining room, which was anchored to the left of the entrance by a wall-to-wall hearth.

The back of it was blackened with soot, and the logs inside it were charred.

A stack of logs and peat moss leaned haphazardly against the surround, drawing the eye to the stonework on the walls that looked as though they had stood in place for hundreds of years.

The arches that broke the space into clustered areas looked smooth from time instead of a builder’s tools.

The tables were crammed together in typical New York style, and the patrons clamored to be heard over the sounds of the open kitchen and bartenders slinging drinks.

It was stunning in its authenticity—and if there was anything Aidan was a full expert on, it was medieval taverns.

Gregory led him through a heavy curtain, and when it fell closed behind him, the noise lessened considerably.

Emma sat at the table, her deep golden hair piled atop her head in a haphazard knot, secured with two sticks that looked as though they’d be useful in a fight.

Her face glowed in the candlelight, and her eyes brightened when she saw him.

“Mr. MacWilliam, hello,” she said warmly, standing as he came closer. He took her hand again and kissed the back of her knuckles, careful to linger a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He caught her blush.

“Thank you for meeting me here,” he said.

He handed his jacket to Gregory and said, “We’ll have whatever the special is tonight.

Send back a bottle of Jameson and one of pinot noir”—he looked to Emma, who nodded her assent—“then we’re not to be bothered except by Cian, who will tell the staff of any needs we may have. ”

“Very good, sir.” Gregory waited for Emma to sit, then fanned her napkin over her lap. Aidan waved him away, and as soon as the curtain dropped, she sat back and crossed her arms.

“This is a beautiful restaurant,” Emma said, smoothing the napkin over her lap. She glanced closer at it, then held it up. “Look! This is the same design as the front door!”